


Anything for you

by Keeblo



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Canon Divergence, Fighting, M/M, Stancest Valentine Exchange 2021, Threats of Violence, the stan twins need to talk things out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:54:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29437137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keeblo/pseuds/Keeblo
Summary: Stan’s biggest flaw very well might be his willingness to drop any and everything for his brother regardless of the situation. Say, for example, driving for nearly two days straight from across the border to Oregon at the behest of a postcard. A postcard which happened to be the first and only contact he has received from said brother in ten years after getting kicked out for an accident. Hell, he’s cheated and lied and extorted to survive, but it’s all been at a cost to keep him alive for a little longer. So, finding himself on the porch of a house belonging to his estranged brother in the middle of literal nowhere is quite possibly the stupidest thing that he’s ever done given the circumstances.
Relationships: Ford Pines/Stan Pines
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Anything for you

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the stancest valentine exchange for 2021 for hellorebecca on tumblr! It's not too terribly much, but hopefully it's enjoyable! :)

Stan’s biggest flaw very well might be his willingness to drop any and everything for his brother regardless of the situation. Say, for example, driving for nearly two days straight from across the border to Oregon at the behest of a postcard. A postcard which happened to be the first and only contact he has received from said brother in ten years after getting kicked out for an accident. Hell, he’s cheated and lied and extorted to survive, but it’s all been at a cost to keep him alive for a little longer. So, finding himself on the porch of a house belonging to his estranged brother in the middle of literal nowhere is quite possibly the stupidest thing that he’s ever done given the circumstances.

Stan mulls all of this over as he waits after knocking on the door. His body aches from the cold because, of course, his reunion with Ford has to be during the coldest month of the year in a place that will snow enough to drown someone. Not to mention the fact that he hasn’t been anywhere with weather dipping below the consideration of a light jacket in years. He scowls as he stares out into the unending blanket of white. Things better be real dire for Ford to have brought him up into this nonsense instead of on a beach somewhere warm.

He isn’t really paying attention when the door swings open with a rush of warm air and an exclamation about taking eyes. It seems a decade apart has had more than its fair share of fun chewing both of them up and spitting them back out if their reactions to each other are any indication.

Stan pants out a ragged breath, eyes wide and body taut. Ford stares back at him with wild eyes and a complete lack of recognition. 

“Stanford?” He says his brother’s name carefully. A puff of vapor tumbles up from his lips and obscures Ford’s face for half a second of tense uncertainty. His fingers tighten around the knife pressed beneath Ford’s jaw. His body is rigid against the cold bolt pressed to his forehead for far longer than he would like before something flickers in Ford’s eyes.

“...Stanley?” His initial reaction is to nod but he stops himself, the bolt a threat he would rather not tempt to fruition.

“Yeah, Sixer, it’s me.” He swallows. He wants to drop his knife. “Could you, uh, maybe not point a crossbow at my head?” Ford doesn’t react immediately. They end up watching each other, each tense and unwavering in their aggressive stances. 

After a long stretch, Ford’s eyes dart back and forth and then he yanks Stan inside without any regard for the blade digging into his skin. Stan barely manages a frustrated ‘hey’ between getting pulled inside and trying not to accidentally stab Ford as he stumbles in through the door.

The door slams back into its frame with a shudder under Ford’s palm. Stan gets the beginning of a questioning sound out before there’s a hand clawing tight into his collar and pushing him back against a wall. He cringes when Ford shines a light into each of his eyes, leaving spots to dance in his vision.

“Did anyone follow you?” That wild edge returns to Ford’s eyes as he paces and peeks out of shoddily covered windows. Stan tucks his knife away and watches the frenzy of movement with a growing anxiety.

“Slow your roll, Sixer. What’s going on?” He steps towards Ford instinctively, intending to reach out for him but Ford wheels before he can reach him.

“Were you followed? Yes or no!” The crossbow sits against the wall next to the door, but Stan has no doubt that Ford will find a way to kill him if he doesn’t answer correctly. So, he holds up his hands and shakes his head.

“No. I wasn’t followed.” He says the words. Waits.

Ford visibly relaxes, though the distance in his eyes remains. Stan takes the chance and steps forward, gets Ford beneath his hands. Ford flinches but otherwise doesn’t make any move to threaten him or shy away as he gets checked over.

Stan frowns as he slides his hands over Ford. Ford’s skin is clammy beneath layers of clothing and he stinks to high hell. Stan’s seen the miserable effects of everything from drug overdoses to flesh eating diseases on men hardened from a life of crime, but none of that comes close to unearthing his foundations like seeing Ford completely lost. He gets Ford’s face between his palms, soothes his fingers over Ford’s pallid skin and watches as something broken and dangerous edges over his brother’s features.

Ford looks like he wants to say something. Hell, he starts, tries to say something past Stan’s firm hold on him, but Stan shushes him. Stan needs the moment to breathe Ford in and, without a doubt, so does Ford. So, he shushes Ford and smooths sweat slicked hair from his brother’s forehead so he can press his own there. He’s still nervous and on high alert, but he closes his eyes and murmurs that it will be okay over and over. He tells himself it’s for Ford, but he knows it’s for himself, to reassure himself that this is real despite how heart wrenching it is.

Ford is surprisingly quiet for the whole exchange. He seems to deflate under Stan’s caresses, seems to teeter on the edge of giving in to the long-missed touches of his twin. But he doesn’t. 

Ford pulls back with a sharp inhale and moves his fingers tighten around Stan’s wrists.

“I asked you here for something very important.” Ford watches Stan with an air of grave seriousness before lowering his voice. “I need your help, Stanley. I’m in too deep. I...I can’t do this alone.” Ford’s eyes are dark and pleading. Stan swallows dryly.

“Of course, Sixer. Anything. Whatever you need.” He nods until Ford repeats the action and pulls back.

“Thank you. Come with me.” Stan follows Ford through the house until they’re standing in front of an elevator. He wants to say something about how bizarre it is that Ford has an elevator in his home, but the air between them is tense with something that he can’t identify and isn’t willing to prod, so he remains quiet until they reach some sort of underground lab.

He follows Ford into a cavernous room dug into walls of dirt. His jaw drops when he spots some sort of doomsday looking monstrosity in the center of the room. The contraption is a scientific marvel, surely, but it’s an upside-down triangular omen that unsettles him down to his bones.

“Uh...so what’s with the, uh…” Stan gestures with his hand towards the machine. Ford stops ahead of him, closer to the machine with his back to Stan.

“This is a trans-dimensional portal. I’ve been working on it for two years.” Ford turns and that wild edge is back in his eyes, but there’s something more there, too. Something so vulnerable and scared that it hurts to witness. Stan walks forward until he’s next to Ford. They both turn their heads to look at the portal.

“Is that what you need help with? Cause Sixer, look, I love ya and I’d do anything for ya, but I know jack about all’a this.” Stan gestures towards the portal again with jerky motions. When he turns his gaze back to Ford, Ford is watching him with a careful air.

“No, Stanley. The portal…” Ford’s eyes drop, his forehead wrinkling into deep creases. “That thing will not ever be functional again, so long as I can help it. No...no I need your help with something else. Something much more important.” Ford reaches into his coat and before Stan can even think, he jerks a hand to his knife and takes a sharp step backwards, startling Ford into dropping something heavy to the dirt floor.

Ford gives Stan a startled, concerned look, murmuring his name in the heavy silence around them. It only takes a split second for Stan to jerk his hands up and start apologizing. Ford seems even more startled by the fervent apologizing than the defensive stance Stan had taken. Stan falters and quiets as soon as he notices Ford’s wide eyes and minute trembling.

“Sixer, Stanford, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so loud. Here,” Stan crouches slowly to pick up what Ford had dropped. He keeps his eyes on Ford as he stands just to be sure that Ford knows he’s not going to do anything and so he can be sure Ford won’t either.

Back to eye-level with Ford, Stan holds out what appears to be a book of some sort. He’s a little confused as to how he hadn’t noticed it on Ford earlier given its size and considerable weight. Ford starts to reach out but stops mid movement and instead pushes the book into Stan’s chest.

Ford presses himself close into Stan’s space, hands still firm and pressing against the book in Stan’s hands. Stan blinks, swipes his tongue quickly over his dry lower lip and tries to find some semblance of language control to ask what’s happening.

“Stanley, I need you to promise me, promise me you’ll take this journal as far away as you can get and don’t look back.” Ford’s eyes are wide and pleading, more gray than blue in the dimness of the basement, but still so familiar and so afraid. Stan’s mouth moves like he’s going to say something, but he can’t get the words out. He can’t think with Ford moving to cling to him, to curl his fingers tight into the hair at Stan’s nape and plead oh-so-softly into the space between them.

“Just like when we were kids, you can-you can get a boat, sail away. It just...Stan, you have to promise me. It’s too dangerous, I can’t keep it here! Please, Stan, please, please, for me, I need you. I need you, Stan, please…” Ford inches closer, gets his arms around Stan’s neck as his pleas begin to rattle and grow choked.

Stan wants to get his arms around Ford, to hold him and comfort him but he can’t get over Ford’s words finally starting to register. He pulls back, extracting himself from Ford’s choking grip. And somehow, this verbal admission and Ford downright begging him to...to leave, hurts so much more than his silence when they were eighteen. It hurts more than Stan thought anything could ever hurt him again.

Stan scrubs his face with one palm, the book heavy in the other as he starts a wobbly pace backwards and away from Ford. Away from the man who he can’t even think to consider his brother anymore.

“Sixer,” Stan starts, eyes uncomfortably hot and itchy, “you can’t be serious. It’s been ten years and you want me to leave? Again?” Stan shakes his head but there’s so much more of him shaking beyond his control. His body, his hands, the hog-podge foundations of mental stability he had built over the years to survive the cruelties of the world and the cruelties of missing his other half.

“Stanley, this isn’t about what I want. Why can’t you ever see that? That journal-” Ford’s eyes flick towards the book clenched tight in Stan’s fist, “is evil and could mean the end of the world.” Ford turns his eyes back to meet Stan’s and there is so much pleading and fear there that it chokes Stan like it’s his own.

“...Then why me? Why me, Stanford? Why do I have to be the one to take it away? You coulda just as easily never wrote and I wouldn’t even know you were still alive. I…” Stan swallows thickly around the growing lump in his throat. “I thought you loved me, once upon a time.” Stan can’t stop the tears from falling as he blinks at the source of so much of his pain. Ford stares back at him with wide eyes and a contorted expression.

“Stanley, I do love you. I love you and trust you and that’s why I need you to do this. I can’t risk it falling into the wrong hands.” Ford inches forward carefully, but without the care and sense of danger that’s pervaded Stan’s every movement since getting involved in a drug cartel. 

Stan stops, lets Ford get close enough to cup his face with clammy palms clearly unpracticed in showing care, but he doesn’t relax. And perhaps, if this had been ten years ago when they were both still eighteen and Stan couldn’t ever say no to Ford’s requests, maybe he would have melted beneath those hands. Maybe in a different time or place where he hadn’t had to cloak himself in a shell of faux debonair and rely on his ability to steal and cheat and lie, he would give in to Ford and dutifully take the journal and sail far, far away. But it’s not any of those times or places. So he reacts in the only way he knows how.

“You’re fulla shit, Ford. You knew where I was, somehow, and you didn’t reach out to help or reconnect. You just needed your little brother who’s always bent over backwards for ya to get you out of a grind again.” Stan swats away Ford’s hands, whispered words harsh and clinging in the cold air. 

It’s easy to be angry. All he’s ever known is how to be angry. Angry at the world for how it treated Ford, angry at their abusive father and aloof mother, angry at himself for being the fuck up of the family.

Ford’s eyes glint wetly in the dimness.

“Ya know, I got a better idea.” Stan shoulders his way past Ford and fishes for his lighter in his jeans. When he produces the small item, he flicks it a few times until a steady flame burns. He turns back to face Ford, the small flame held out like a toast. “To being a fuck up!”

Stan couldn’t have ever anticipated Ford’s strength and feral determination. Stan only remembers Ford as a gangly but broad, sweaty nerd with little ferocity to do more than outwit and bad mouth. But as Stan stumbles back and nearly collapses from the force that Ford charges into him with, he has a bizarre moment of pride mixing with panic.

“That’s my life’s work!” Ford grapples for the journal, elbowing Stan in the chest. Stan responds by holding the journal into the air - a moot point now that they’re practically even in height - and punching Ford in the sternum just hard enough to get Ford to stumble back, wheezing. Stan doesn’t hesitate to book it out of the chamber of a room, fingers already moving to flick the lighter back to life.

For a second time, Stan is caught unaware when Ford plows into him, knocking them both against a stack of machinery. They’re immediately moving back to unsteady feet on the ground as Stan shoves Ford away, but Ford grips a hand into his jacket, and they stumble. Stan manages to stay upright as Ford sprawls to the floor, the book falling open next to him.

Stan makes a lunge for the journal only for Ford to catch him on the chest with his foot before he’s being shoved back against the side of a desk. And then there’s a sharp, tight burning that sears into his shoulder and he chokes out a sound that he feels but can’t hear. The foot against his chest falls away just as quickly and he’s reeling forward dumbly as his vision blacks out. 

There’s a moment of confusion and ice under his skin and something touching him. He reacts before thinking, snapping a defensive fist in the direction of the foreign touch. His wayward fist hits something and then he falls to his palms as he gasps in desperate air.

It takes a moment of blinking, and he’s still shaky where he can feel his limbs, but Stan is finally able to see. He snatches the journal from the ground and finds his lighter before surging up and back into the portal room. He flicks the lighter and moves the flame beneath the journal before anything else can stop him. Of course, that’s when Ford sidelines him a third time.

“Stanley!” Ford crashes into Stan and they knock into a switch on the floor, singed journal sliding out of Stan’s grasp. 

Stan is the first to crawl away as the room starts to blink in a blinding blue light. He gets the journal into his hands again when Ford lets out a startled sound, drawing Stan’s attention back towards the portal.

“Stan, help!” Stan watches in shock as Ford starts to rise from his hands and knees up into the air. Ford kicks and thrashes uselessly, eyes bugged open and terrified. Stan drops the journal, realizing a second later that Ford is not only floating up, but he’s floating in towards the swirling vortex of the portal.

“Stanford! What do I do?” Stan stops himself from rushing forward as he shouts. Something between him and Ford prevents him from drifting away too and he knows he can’t risk doing the same without having a plan to keep them safe.

Ford starts jerking in earnest, begging for Stan to help him and save him with no mention of how Stan can do either. So, Stan doesn’t think, doesn’t try to think logically through his panic. He moves reactively because that’s the only way that’s ever kept him alive.

Stan jogs back a few steps and leaves his hopes for this working as he sprints forward. As soon as he feels the barest upward tug around him, he squats and pushes up as hard as he can. He lifts off of the ground much faster than Ford did, his trajectory aimed sharply upwards. 

Stan hits Ford within the span of a breath. Ford lets out a hysterical sound of relief right before their course sends them crashing into the upper part of the portal. Ford takes the brunt of the hit, coughing out a lungful of air as they ricochet and start rising further into the air. 

Stan loses his hold on Ford after they hit the portal. He tries to reach Ford again but Ford drifts up faster and Stan ends up with his feet towards Ford and the ceiling.

“Sixer!” Stan struggles for a moment to reorient himself so he can grab Ford when something in the air shifts. Their ascent suddenly slows and then halts for a brief second. He can see it in Ford’s eyes that they both realize what’s going to happen.

“Sixer, your hands,” Stan commands. Having been slightly behind, Stan continues rising for just a hair longer, getting him just close enough to Ford that he can reach him through his legs. Ford moves on instinct and reaches for Stan. Stan gets his fingers around Ford’s wrists and as they both start to drift back down, Stan yanks Ford toward him with all of his strength.

Ford lets out a startled sound as he is suddenly flung past Stan’s head. Using the momentum, Stan is able to send them back towards the top of the portal. Stan pulls Ford as gently as he can up and over him so that they rotate as they fall, slowing slightly with Stan angled towards the portal. 

Stan is pretty sure he passes out for a moment when he slams into the portal back first. As soon as he regains himself half a second later, he presses his feet into the portal and kicks off. He allows himself only then to feel any sense of hope as they shoot back towards the ground. Then they start to slow...and slow…

In the moment between being pulled back by the portal and tumbling across the ground, Stan steels himself for having to push Ford away to save him, but then the pull is suddenly gone and they drop a few feet to the dirt floor hard enough to wind them both.

Stan hisses through the pain rippling in waves from his shoulder, the only thing keeping him conscious. He rolls to his stomach and catches sight of Ford’s prone form a few feet away. He tries to crawl towards Ford, but incredible nausea washes over him and then he drops unconscious face first into the dirt.

Stan rouses with a jerk and an unfathomable pain heavy in his back. He pants out a heaving, hissing groan through his teeth as he pushes himself to his hands. He has to get up and get away just in case the source of his pain is still around. He gets as far as falling to his hip and scooting away on his ass ineffectively until he remembers Ford and the portal and he stops, jerking his head around to make sure he isn’t about to be swallowed into a glowing swirl of blue.

Much to his surprise, the room is dim once again. He swallows thickly through his dry mouth and scans the room, his eyes landing on Ford as he stops in the doorway to the room. Stan’s heart jumps in his chest. He feels numbing coldness despite the hot sting of his injuries.

Ford looks…relieved? He looks like shit with sunken skin and a layer of grime with the stench one would expect of it, but when he kneels next to Stan with firm commands to move slowly and with care, there’s a relief in his eyes.

“Here, you can lean your weight on me,” Ford murmurs as he tries to heft Stan up with an arm carefully wrapped around his waist. Stan heaves through gritted teeth but forces himself to get to his feet. By the time he’s standing, he’s leaning heavily into Ford’s chest, both of them breathing raggedly from the effort. 

Stan wants to cry. He thinks it’s probably because it feels like his bones are melting in his chest, but it could also be from the emotional turmoil that being at Ford’s has caused. Either way, he hisses out his breath in slow intervals against Ford’s neck to keep from stretching the skin around his burn. It’s a moot point because every inhale burns enough to make his vision dot.

He isn’t sure how Ford manages to get him to finally move and start walking back towards the elevator. Nothing registers but his tight-fisted grip in Ford’s coat and the heavy silence beneath the rattling sounds of his own breath in his head.

They eventually make it upstairs and Ford leads them back through the house until they’re in a kitchen. Ford nudges Stan towards a chair and Stan sits with a bitten off curse. In the waves of searing pain that follow, Stan doesn’t notice Ford walk away nor come back. He doesn’t remember that Ford is even there until there is a pressure against the throbbing in his back and a low murmur of reassurances behind him.

Stan slumps against the dirty surface of the table in front of him and digs his fingernails into the marred wood until the throbbing dulls and his body feels numb. Then, suddenly, his entire body sags as he is able to relax. He lets out a shaky breath against the cool wood beneath his cheek. Fingers smooth through his hair slowly.

Stan doesn’t want to move. There’s still a tight pressure in his back, but the pain is gone and the fingers rubbing into his scalp are more soothing than anticipated. For as long as it has been, Ford seems to remember every dip and curve on the back of Stan’s head that shuts his brain off.

Some amount of time later, Stan really isn’t sure how long, he hears Ford sigh quietly and then Ford’s fingers stop and he pulls away. On the cusp of unconsciousness, it takes a few moments of strong internal pressuring just to force himself to open his eyes. 

Ford hovers behind him, arms crossed over his chest and expression sullen. Ford opens his mouth when he notices Stan watching him, but promptly shuts it again to turn and pad over to the sink. For all of the years apart and the changes that they have gone through, Ford is still an open book with his anxious mannerisms. 

At first, Stan doesn’t do anything besides shift a little in his seat so he can better watch Ford. He waits as Ford clenches and unclenches his hands against the counter, weight shifting between his feet. Through it all, Stan just waits and watches. He waits until Ford’s breaths turn soggy and uneven and his features screw up into a dynamic mask of fear and guilt and anguish. And then Stan can’t wait anymore. He can’t watch. So he pushes himself up to his feet uncertainly and, when his body doesn’t crumple in pain, he makes his way over to Ford. He rests his chin on Ford’s shoulder and wraps his arms loosely around Ford’s waist until each heaving breath moves them in unison.

As the minutes tick by, Ford’s shaking sobs trail off. Stan stays through it all. He keeps his palms flat to Ford’s stomach and counts his own breaths as they push a steady rhythm into Ford’s back. He tries to be a steady constant until Ford turns in his grip.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t a better brother to you, Stan,” Ford whispers. Stan shifts slightly, palms firm on the curve of Ford’s ribs. He wants to stroke his thumbs over Ford’s cheeks, but he refrains. 

“No worries, Sixer. I wasn’t much of a brother to you in the first place.” Stan swallows and lets out a short breath. He wishes this were different. He wishes everything had been different.

There’s an uncomfortable pause that stretches between them, both clearly wanting to say so much more, but neither having the skills to approach the other in meaningful, healthy ways. Stan is the first to break.

“Look, Ford, I can...I can take your journal, or whatever. I’ll go.” Stan starts to pull back but Ford catches on of his hands frantically before he can cup it to Ford’s cheek. 

“Don’t...please. Not yet, at least. You need, uh,” Ford blinks and looks at such a loss for words, “I should patch you up first. And you need rest. We can...we can discuss what to do next later…” Ford nods to himself then meets Stan’s eyes again. Stan shakes his head slowly. Ford starts to frown.

“Stanford,” Ford flinches at his own name, “I don’t think I can do that. I thought...I thought that I could handle this, ya know? Being around you again. I figured that I could ignore everything between us and we could start fresh, but I keep  _ hurting _ you. I keep, just, fucking things up and I don’t want to keep doing that. I love you, Stanford, and I don’t...I don’t…” Stan presses his lips into a hard line as his eyebrows furrow. He doesn’t know what to say or how to express that he would give up everything for Ford. Even if it tears him apart again.

Ford stares at him for a long time without saying anything. Of course, Stan can’t bear to meet his eyes. He can barely manage to keep his eyes on Ford’s stubbled jaw through the silence.

“Stay with me.” Stan startles at the words, so lost in his resignation.

“Stay…? What?” Stan starts to pull back again because he couldn’t have heard that right. But Ford’s grip is tight and he moves right back into the space Stan creates.

“Stay. Here. With me.” Ford’s eyes get big and he looks nearly hysterical but his lips twitch up as his conviction grows. “I promised myself that if I ever saw you again I would kiss you and say I’m sorry.” Stan struggles to follow along as Ford’s words quicken.

“Kiss me…? Sixer, you’re not making any sense. Do you need to sit down?” Stan moves a hand to Ford’s shoulder, squeezes it with a slight shake. Ford either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care because he he grins outright and it’s terrifying and disarming all at once. Stan has a brief thought that Ford has actually gone mad scientist when Ford cups his jaw between both hands.

“I’m sorry, Stanley. I’m sorry that I was stupid and selfish and that I pushed you away.” Ford sweeps his thumbs gently over Stan’s cheeks, eyes so blue and genuine. “If the world is going to end because of my mistakes, I’ll at least make sure that this isn’t one of them.” Stan is about to ask, to demand Ford explain  _ any _ of what he’s talking about. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Because Ford kisses him.

Stan would never admit that his brain shuts off the second they’re kissing. Even when it’s just lips pressed assuredly together, it’s like everything moment before this one simply ceases to exist. And that stupid, stupid part of him that can’t help but to drop everything for Ford no matter the circumstance hums in satisfaction.

When Ford pulls back, Stan is still trying to process. By the time he opens his eyes, Ford’s expression is starting to close off again, unsure and cautious. Stan reacts clumsily, moving his hands to Ford’s face and whispering urgent reassurances.

“Hey, no, don’t- don’t pull back. That was good. I, that was, I liked that. Don’t pull- I liked it, Ford, come back, hey…” Stan presses short kisses to Ford’s face as he speaks. He doesn’t...he  _ can’t _ have Ford pulling away from him again. Not after  _ that _ .

Ford is slow to react but seems to warm back up after a few minutes of peppered kisses to his face. When Stan asks if he’s okay, Ford nods slowly with the sigh of all sighs.

“I’m going to need to get back to work if you stay.” Ford says this distractedly. When he notices Stan’s falling expression, he gives Stan a reassuring squeeze on the forearm. “I want you to stay.” Stan relaxes. “But there’s much to be done if we’re to stay safe from Bill.” Ford nods and gives Stan a fiercely determined look. The same that Ford used to get when they were kids and getting into constant trouble.

“I have a plan. Blueprints for a machine that can encrypt thoughts. I don’t have Fiddleford to help me anymore…” Ford’s forehead creases as he frowns. Then he looks back to Stan and for a moment he looks less like an unhinged recluse and more like the Ford that Stan imagined he would grow up to be. “But I have you now.”

Stan can’t hide the way he beams at those words. Nor can he hide the immediate embarrassment after the fact when he realizes that he’s giving Ford the biggest, sappiest lovesick expression. For the first time in ten years, Stan feels a little less empty and a little less bitter. There’s still a lot to work through both on his own and in future conversations with Ford that are undoubtedly going to be uncomfortable and difficult. But he thinks he can do it. That  _ they _ can do it. Because he can never say no to Ford.

“Anything for you, Sixer.” 


End file.
